The Shadow of a King

Chapter 2 Alone Amongst Friends-2

Although daylight had long since broken the hold of darkness, the chamber was dim, the shutters still closed, and only the smallest c****s of light were able to enter. The thin, bright shafts speared through the darkness, made whole as they reflected on the floating motes of dust and the smoke that lazily escaped from the small dying fire. The hearth was set in the middle of the room, and its fire had burnt fiercely for most of the night, but the bright flickering flames had long fled along with the supply of wood, leaving just a few glowing embers and a steady trickle of smoke.

The lone figure kneeling before it stared into the last glowing embers oblivious to the lack of light and the cloying, dense atmosphere.

Hers had been a long day and then an even longer night. She had spent most of the daylight hours, scouring the woods and countryside, gathering ash bark, mugwort, henbane and after visiting the hanging tree at the base of Glastening Tor, she had finally located a healthy mandrake plant, a rare find that only the most knowledgeable knew of, probably escaped from some ancient Roman herb garden.

Tradition dictated that the mandrake only grew upon ground that has been touched by fluids released by a hanging man. She knew it to grow in other locations as well, and that it was a rare non-native root growing from original plants brought in by the Romans during their occupation. She had already searched several abandoned old Roman villa sites, but finally, she had found her plant away from the villa, ten paces to the north of the hanging tree and had thought at the time that it was a good omen.

The extracting of the mandrake root took a little more precaution than had been necessary for the other items. After carefully digging all around to loosen the root, she had tied a rope, firstly to the base of the plant and then to her horse, and she had pulled it from a distance, chanting and covering her ears lest the sound of it being drawn should strike her down and kill her. The root once extracted was big and healthy, and resembled a dirty, stunted fat man. Once back at the Abbey, the kitchen garden had provided the final ingredients necessary. She had then eaten a sparse meal and then locked herself away, feeding the fire with the wood and a mixture of the roots, plants and herbs that she had gathered, both to banish the cold and, of course, to bring on the visions that she craved.

Now it was over, at the end of her night. The sweet pungency of the earlier blaze still hung heavy, and her thoughts and mind remained beyond the smouldering residues of the fire, they were currently many leagues away watching the dying King.

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the last small branch of scented rosemary, twisting and worrying at the green sticks, the pointed, fragrant leaves long lost to the detritus and dust before her.

'He lives, yet remains a broken wretch of a man,' her mumbling voice signalled that she was close to her return. She began to sway, back and forth in time with her words. 'Uther Pendragon, you will… not… escape… your… penance. I shall not allow the Druid… to claim you again.' After a few moments, her eyes fluttered open, and Morgana Le Fay began to weep. Her body shook, and then her frustration erupted, and she pounded her thighs with her fists. The sobbing slowly began to subside, she stopped hitting herself and became still. Opening her eyes, she drew a hand across them to wipe away her tears and noticed the small, broken twigs she was holding. She lay them gently where she judged the fire still held enough heat to make them burn and then sniffed as they began to smoke and watched, her mind drifting a little, recalling her visions.

The King walked, he lived and was, by some strange miracle or Druidic trick, somewhat healthy, assuredly a whole lot more healthy than when she had last seen him, strapped to the back of a cantering horse.

'He still dies and, once he is returned, he shall surely die once more; slowly, in remorse… and alone. There must be cause for him to be returned and for that, he must return, close to death.' Gathering what was left of her energy, she rose from the floor, wincing at the cramping stiffness in her bones, and brushed the dirt and bits of twig from her robes.

The nuns would be finished with morning prayers and already about the many tasks it took to run the small Abbey. Crossing to the window, she threw open the shutter allowing the fresh air to enter and the smoke to depart and leant upon the sill. Gazing out, she brightened a little. One particular task that she kept for herself was the care of the Abbey's small flock of chickens. The prospect of being in the open and collecting some eggs lifted her spirits. With a sigh and a shake of her head at the strangeness of life, be it by the will of God or the eccentricities of the spirits, she walked from her chamber and headed down the dark corridor towards the gardens and waiting chickens. Uther Pendragon would return soon enough; it was inevitable, and when he did, she could get back to the unravelling of his soul once more. Mayhap there was a way that his return could be assured. She became lost in thought, and then her pace became brisker with her decision taken. A journey must be made, and a contract struck.

* * *

Within the central pavilion upon the hill, it was hot, uncomfortable and crowded with Druids, elders and warriors. The air was ripe with a heady aroma of stale exhaled breath, unclean bodies sweating in leather and plate armour and the ever present odour of horses. In the midst of the throng, Uther was starting to feel weak. He had been around men like these and Councils such as this for most of his life, yet this day the atmosphere offended him as it had never done before. His head ached, his back hurt, and he was longing for the release of his pallet, a little silence and the chance to be alone. It felt as if everyone in the pavilion was crowding him, looking for him to provide answers, expecting him to bring about some glorious victory after all their recent defeats. He shifted his position on the rough wooden bench and then pushed back hard against whomever it was that constantly leaned over him.

He glanced back into the bearded, surprised features of Sir Gareth, one of the most eager warriors and he knew, a good friend to Arthur. Drawing a breath he swallowed the rebuke he had been about to make and offered a smile and a little courtesy. 'Please, Sir Gareth, would you give me a little room.' The young warrior blushed and offered a mumbled apology before stepping back a little. Uther wiped the back of his sleeve across his brow, turned back to the business at hand and tried to make some sense from the information he had been hearing.

'I don't understand why we are just gathering our forces and then marching up to Valerum like so many cattle being driven to market? Explain to me again whose idea was it to fight a battle there?'

'It was Octa, Sire,' muttered Sir Ector.

'In that case, I certainly don't like the idea,' said Uther. 'Why are we doing what he wants?'

Sir Ector cleared his throat and sat a little straighter. 'The Saxon made a challenge for us to meet him upon the battlefield to settle our… differences once and for all. There has been no real battle with the Saxons since you became ill. We clash with them daily in some form or other as they mount raids against our holdings and attempt to force our border and we push them back, but this is the first time we have called to gather the tribes and are ready to form a shield wall.' Sir Ector kept his gaze upon the table where a rough plan of the country had been chalked. It was preferable to raising his eyes and looking into what he knew would be the piercing, blue-eyed gaze from his King.

'Settle our differences? What differences are we settling, Sir Ector? That they steal our land and, once conquered, force our people to bend under their Saxon rule. We strike them back, as we have always done, blood is spilt and on and on and on… This, I trust, has been our main complaint against our eastern neighbours, and theirs against us? You make it sound as if they are inviting us to dance at the Beltane celebrations rather than enter into battle.' Uther drew a breath and rubbed his eyes. 'We shall continue to clash with the Saxons regardless of the outcome of this battle. Throughout my reign we have made countless truces, fought scores of battles, reset our boundaries and, for a while, they have always honoured those agreements. But then more of their cursed longships arrive, and they seek to force the borders again. What we need is a decisive victory to gain some time so we can make our land our own once again under a new King as Merlyn suggests.' Uther looked towards Arthur, who sat opposite him. The young prince appeared, for a moment, as if he were about to object to the implication of Uther ever giving way to him, but Uther raised his hand to still him and spoke on.

'The land you indicated, the area chosen for the battle… here.' Uther placed a finger upon the chalked table. 'Have our scouts made any assessment?' I assume it favours Octa and his forces?'

'Yes, Sire. They already gather, however, it is on our border, which means neither side should be favoured.'

'I propose we gather our troops in the woodland, here,' - Uther's finger moved - 'to the south. 'How many men, chariots and horsemen do we have to make up our numbers? And what do we know of the Saxon strengths, how do they prepare for our upcoming dance? We need information, Sir Ector. I sorely miss Cal and his wolves right now, but perhaps we can find out a little more before our shield walls clash. Send out the scouts and get us information. It is knowledge that shall gain us our victory over Octa, not just a wall of hacking, thrusting steel, although we will need plenty of that. Let us talk of our forces.'

The Council continued throughout the day, calculating troops, reckoning supplies, comparing strengths and discussing the merits of the terrain around Valerum, until the light began to bleed from the day and bellies in the pavilion started to growl, bemoaning the lateness of a meal. The table was cleared, and those of a lesser rank sent to pass word amongst the men that plans were forming and that their King was preparing to lead them to a great and decisive victory.

For those that remained seated around the long uneven table, mead and ale were brought along with pallets of boar, pheasant and venison. The meal was eaten in the Roman style, from trenchers of thick, substantial platters of bread that were placed in front of each man and the food piled up and eaten from the top of it. The fat, grease and the rich gravy that accompanied the meats, all soaked into the bread, which was torn to shreds and enthusiastically and noisily devoured.

Five days later the tribes began to depart. The camp was dismantled, and the scouts led each tribe to the woodland south of Valerum.